


Behind Closed Doors

by pondernce (watchhhimdance)



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, professor/student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchhhimdance/pseuds/pondernce
Summary: Jamie and Claire meet again under less than ideal circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So this is the first thing I’ve written in almost 5 years, and the first for Outlander. (be kind to me). I hope you like it, and much love to @julesbeauchamp for her support <3

_ He could feel her hands on him, soft, delicate fingers tracing the planes of his back. They danced over scar tissue--the groves hewn into his skin by force--healing the wounds for him. Her mouth dipped to caress his jaw, the feathery brush of lips chased by soft, humid breath. A kiss on his neck. His Adam’s Apple. The juncture where sternocleidomastoid met trapezius. For a moment he let his eyes close, lost in the sensation. She found his mouth then, her legs winding over his hips and guiding him, urging him on.  _

 

_ Immersed in her, the gentle sound of the crashing waves was lost to him. He pressed up onto his hands, wrenching his mouth away because he needed to see her, needed to find those eyes… _

 

Jamie woke up. 

 

His heart raced, his skin was damp with sweat and he was uncomfortable stiff in his pants. As he was every time he remembered. And he always woke before he could see her face again. Aye, he could call her to his mind’s eye and he’d drawn her a dozen dozen times, but nothing so vivid as those dreams. The sketches were never quite right, and he knew that if he could only see her face in those dreams, he’d be able to capture her likeness completely. 

 

With a sigh bordering on a groan, Jamie sat up and glanced at his phone. Five in the morning wasn’t too early, he supposed. At least it gave him time for a workout before he headed to university. A chance to get the nerves out. For some, perhaps, university was an unnerving step into adulthood. Leaving home, moving into a new place, the excitement of newfound independence. But Jamie had already made his move. From Highland Scotland to the Middle East, with the RAF. He couldn’t look forward to seeing what lads and lasses barely out of their A-levels would make of “adulthood” when they had no real responsibilities yet. And what would they make of him? 

 

The streets of London were hardly quiet at this hour, but they were remarkably  _ empty,  _ and that’s what Jamie needed. A place to clear his head- to get  _ her  _ out of his head- before hustling through the crowded halls of King’s College, London. He jogged through the streets of Southwark, dodging the odd dog walker or early commuter. His route to King’s wouldn’t be long, thankfully. His military salary afforded him a nice enough flat close to the school, just across the river. He shared it with another Scot, Rupert, whom he’d served with in Afghanistan. It was a small mercy that Rupert spent almost all his time at his lass’ flat. The bloke was cheerful, but a bit too much sometimes. 

 

Rounding the corner, Jamie checked the time on his FitBit and pushed his pace up, aiming to finish out five kilometers before he made it home. It wouldn’t due to be late for his first course though, even if his schedule for the day of Legal Philosophy and Medical Ethics hardly seemed interesting. 

  
  


\---

 

Legal philosophy could have been interesting, if the professor hadn’t put half the class to sleep. Jamie wasn’t surprised though, given that the majority couldn’t have been more than 18. High off being in Uni and hardly interested in what the ancient man before them had to say about the foundations of Legalism. The two girls next to him hardly paid attention, too busy giggling. He recognized the blonde from orientation, and she  _ clearly  _ recognized him. 

 

Throughout the lecture he took diligent notes, only to avoid the girl’s eyes. The former soldier nearly bolted when the course ended. 

 

He had nearly two hours before his next course and plans to meet that bloke from the Rugby team. He’d gone out before orientation, trying to find some way to get involved. Many veterans struggled in university to find community, and he hoped he wouldn’t be another statistic. 

 

“Fraser!” 

 

He turned, smiling over a few startled students to see John Grey speed walking towards him. He was young, but Jamie found he didn’t mind that energy, John seemed a good person. 

 

Smiling, he bumped the shorter man gently on the shoulder. “Good to see ye, I hope yer class wasn’t as boring…”

 

“Haven’t had class yet, just came early to grab lunch with you. We have practice this afternoon, you know? You’re welcome to come.” 

 

Jamie glanced at his phone and shook his head. “Medical Ethics,” he sighed, “can ye tell I’m keen?” he laughed and shook his head. He wanted to get a background in law before he tried to leap into counter-terrorism, and how did medicine relate to that? 

 

“Pity. I hope it’s interesting.”

 

“I doubt it.” 

 

Jamie didn’t mean to be cynical about university. It was supposed to be an opportunity to make something of himself after his medical discharge. Only, he found it overwhelmingly uncomfortable. And pointless. When he’d been in the war, reviewing briefings and in charge of his men, everything had been urgent. Learning on the fly, under pressure, where attention meant life or death. Here, he had the feeling he’d never need to attend to do well. It was disheartening. 

 

His mind drifted as they ate. His fingers itched for his sketchbook, idle in his book bag. Jamie has taken up the hobby in the barracks, well before he met his muse. But the last two Moleskins had been interspersed with pages devoted to her. It had been a year, he knew he needed to let go. But he couldn’t yet. 

 

“Jamie,” John’s voice cut into his thoughts, jarring the plans for how he’d shade the moonlight dappled on her skin from his thoughts. 

 

“Och, Sorry. What was it ye we’re saying?” 

 

John pursed his lips with that good-natured shake of the head Jamie had already come to realize was a habit. “We should get going to class, where’s your head, man?” 

 

The scot blushed, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck with a laugh. “Nothing, sorry. I didn’t sleep well, ye ken?” It wasn’t quite a lie, given he almost never slept well, or the medically recommended amount. With a small nod he grabbed their rubbish, scolding himself internally on the short walk to the bin. 

 

Jamie knew better. He wanted to make something of himself that wasn’t available in the military, and that’s why he was here. He’d done the work, networked with other former soldiers already working for MI5 and in the government, learned what he needed to do if he wanted to work against domestic terrorism. But university should also be for himself, shouldn’t it? A change to live a bit of a normal life, to decompress after so much time at war. He knew he was lucky to even be back in the UK, let alone at a prestigious university. With a sigh and a quick shake of his head, he returned to John. 

 

“I’ll be at practice after my class eh, make it up to you. Ye free for a pint after?” He grabbed his bag and fell into step alongside the shorter man, making a mental note of their plans as John went off about something on the news that morning. His brother was running for Parliament and the whole family had been in politics for  _ centuries.  _ Perhaps someday Jamie would be able to take advantage of such a connection, but presently he just needed the company. 

 

They parted ways at one of the newer campus buildings, all shiny glass and stone. London was like that--an eclectic mix of modern and tradition that had Jamie missing Scotland more than foreign shores ever had. He’d not been home in years, and never truly wanted to go back. At least not yet. 

 

“Excuse me,” he shoulder his way through a gaggle of students in the corridor, looking for the correct room. “104, 106…  _ Christ.”  _ 108 had to be the smallest room in the building, if not on the bloody campus. He’d failed to realize that the modern building connected to one of the oldest buildings, where the rooms became cramped cubicles of stone with sharply pointed windows, more reminiscent of a church than a university. The floor was old oak pitted and polished by centuries of steps, and Jamie could almost trace the path to one of the few available seats left. He was a large bloke--a fact which became abundantly clear as he settled behind the old fashioned desk. His knees knocked against the tabletop when he tried to sit up, forcing him to fold them awkwardly over the side. “Bit cramped, aye?” He joked quietly, meeting the eyes of a petite girl watching him. She flushed violently and nodded, stuttering over her reply. 

 

“It-It’s a small course,” she shrugged finally, milky eyes darting back to her phone.

 

Jamie hummed, his own phone lost in the bottom of his bag after he got off the tube. After the military, he apparently lacked the addiction to smartphones present in the rest of his generation. Or perhaps he was just old. Stretching his legs, he inadvertently cracked his back and sighed in relief, twisting to traction the other side just as another student walked in. 

 

He froze, tracking her steps as she came into the small room. Slightly flustered, curls escaping her high bun and dragging over the material of her lightweight olive jumper, and her arms full of files and textbooks, she was unmistakably the same woman. His muse. Jamie traced every line of her, the smooth curves he knew with his hands and his pencil. He watched the long arc of her graceful neck, so pale and flawless against her dark hair. He couldn’t see her eyes, not yet, and the desire to almost had him squirming in his seat. So distracted was he that he failed to notice she hadn’t taken one of the available seats. 

 

His muse had set down her books at the front of the room, shrugged off her camel overcoat and tossed it carelessly over the podium, carved her name into the ancient chalkboard in neat print, and now stood before them all, introducing the course. 

 

His muse was a  _ professor.  _ His muse was  _ his professor.  _

 

The name that had been absent from his syllabus and his memories stared mockingly back at him, stark white on deep green.  _ Dr. Claire Beauchamp.  _

 


	2. Chapter 2

When she was a little girl, roving the misleading bleak landscape of the Syrian desert, Claire Beauchamp had dreamed of travelling the world forever. At seven she knew scraps of a dozen languages, spoke fluent French alongside her posh English, and delighted in exploring. She thought, at the time, that surely she would follow in the footsteps of her beloved uncles and be an archaeologist.

 

But fate had other plans. Fate led a slightly older Claire to local apothecaries in Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia, who taught her the magic and science of healing. Fate landed Uncle Lamb’s longtime partner Charles in the hospital, where Claire spent her days an accidental shadow of the doctors there. And when they moved to Paris for the Frenchman’s health, she found solace in sciences. Without a formal education, and years ahead of her peers, Claire was something of an outcast all those years. The time other fifteen year olds spent with their friends, or kissing boys in the gardens, or sneaking out to drink in the streets of Pigalle, she spent at a small herbalists shop, playing doctor and witch and finding that her hands were made to heal, not to excavate. 

 

She imagined then that someday she would be a doctor. She would bring together medicine and biology with the plants, herbs, and rituals she had grown so fond of in her youth. And so, at 16, Claire returned to England a student of alternative medicine and biology at Cambridge. She’d always been young and bright and brilliant, and  _ strange,  _ so it was no surprise she was not particularly social at Cambridge. The little bookworm who set the curve and kept to herself (and her plants), it wasn’t until she was eighteen that life, and fate, grew more complicated. 

 

They met in the bookstore, incidentally. Starting her final year of bachelor’s, Claire was picking up her textbooks when Frank Randall entered her life. He was decidedly comfortable, even if he’d never-- now that she thought back on those years--captured her interest completely. He was a graduate student, as she was soon to be, studying history. It hadn’t mattered at the time that he was ten years her senior and ready to complete his phD. She was young, and alone, and her security soon became a man who seemed willing to offer all the guidance and support she’d lacked since leaving Lamb. 

 

For Frank, she fought with fate. She chose a phD in Alternative Medicine over an MD. Dream-Claire exchanged the white coat for leather-elbowed jumpers, the stethoscope for a microscope. 

 

Those had been ugly years. Years that ended with her abrupt flight to Lebanon to see her uncles, a visit that stretched over a month, and then a year. 

 

And a holiday in Cyprus she would never forget. 

 

\---

 

Claire had never truly  _ wanted  _ to be a professor. Her skill had never been in teaching, but in healing. And yet there she was, rushing to her first lecture of her life, 5 minutes late and 5 steps behind her intended schedule. Slightly frantic, she tossed her coat aside carelessly and set down her things, running through the checklist under her breath. “...introduce the course, set up my slides, take attendance…” Speaking on autopilot, it wasn’t until halfway through her introduction that she saw him. 

 

_ Russet curls against white sheets, wild with sweat and exertion and salt from the Mediterranean sea. Long, toned limbs with which she found herself entangled, engulfed really. The heat of his body in sharp contrast with the night air, the heat of his mouth even hotter. But nothing compared to the fire he stoked in her… _

 

“...and what we’ll truly focus on is the important of cul-culture, excuse me,” Claire faltered, lost for a moment in eyes the color of a storming sea. Her face likely gave away every thought in her head. She could feel her cheeks flush slightly, the jumper suddenly much too hot. Christ. He’d have to have found his way here, to her lecture of but a dozen students half a world away from that room. “The importance of culture in treating what we, in the western world, view as disease and injury…” she kept speaking, carrying on with the words she’d practiced in front of Geillis for hours over the weekend, but her mind traversed time and memory. 

 

_ His hands in hers, guiding her along the shore at night, boasting about keeping her safe. His hands on her, caressing her skin or spreading her thighs, gentle and demanding by turns. His hands, white knuckled on the khaki canvas handle of a duffle as he left.  _

 

Prior to seeing him, Claire had intended to handout the syllabi and have the class introduce themselves. She wanted to find a way to make ethics personal, and engaging, and perhaps get a handle on her students experiences.  _ You’re a twenty-nine year old professor, not a blushing schoolgirl,  _ she scolded herself, grabbing the stack of print-outs from her back with perhaps a bit too much gusto,  _ pull yourself together, dammit.  _

 

“I’m not going to waste all of our time asking you to read this now. Take a look at it, as I’m sure most of your questions will be answered here.” she smiled at the small class, pointedly glancing over the redhead’s head. “What we’re going to do instead is explore our own sense of ethics and cultural perspective. I want to remind you all that this is entirely voluntary- I’m not going to ask you to disclose anything, particularly proprietary medical information,” she smirked a little, “that would hardly be ethical, would it?”

 

She relaxed a little at the smattering of soft chuckles, her steps and tone a little more fluid, easy.

 

“So you would tell me your names, your degree, and any experience you have with culture in medicine-- whether that be having been treating by a foreign doctor, having international experience, working in medicine, or even  being from another country,” she paused, stepping back to the front of the room. Claire took a seat on the desk and crossed her legs, long-fingered hands resting over her knees. “Like myself, in fact, although you may be fooled by the accent.” 

 

She made the mistake of glancing at him then, while he was grinning at her, that strangely roguish half smile that had caught her attention once before. Her eyes locked on his, lost for a moment in stormy blue, and then she  _ blushed.  _ Like a schoolgirl.  _ Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, get a hold of yourself!  _

 

With a slight cough, she refocused, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she sat.  _ Why did the room have to be so bloody small?  _ She smiled, nodding to the first student. “Why don’t you start us off, hmm?” 

 

She listened intently, at least as best she could. Claire was never one to pride herself on her listening skills. It had burdened her in the past, particularly with Frank. The one who wanted her only to listen, to remain as blindly enraptured as she had been at eighteen, her eyes wide and yet covered by the wool of youth. But Claire’s mind always drifted. Presently, she listened to her student’s names and experiences while her thoughts drifted. It was only when _ he  _ spoke that Claire was able to draw her full attention to the moment.

 

“James Fraser,” that Scottish burr slid from his lips and over her skin, a caress. It seeped in and pooled in her belly, the phantom reminder of want and  _ need  _ lost to the years. “I suppose I’ve had more than my share of… cultural experiences with medicine.” He shifted, a slight sign of discomfort, his eyes focused on the old oak of his desk. “I was in the army for the last 5 years, and I’ve been treated by doctors from all over. Did a long stint in recovery in Cyprus…” his voice drifted off and Claire found herself staring back at him, the heat rising in her cheeks again. 

 

Hot under her jumper, she managed a smile and a nod before moving her focus to the next student. 

 

Although the class was short that day, as she had no intention of launching right into the full weight of material, Claire felt each minute stretch out. The clock in the back of the room never seemed to move. As she she played the 15 minute video on a particularly dire case of cultural miscommunication in an American hospital (a case she could describe back to front, thankfully), she found herself studying the strong profile of James Fraser in the strange half light of the projector. 

 

It was incredibly unfortunate, having him before her again. That night had been something she pushed from her mind long ago. A blissful memory that brought questions, confusion, shame even. It wasn’t something Claire talked about.

 

She’d never shared so much of herself before, or since. James-  _ Jamie-  _ had opened firmly closed doors in her heart, doors where the wood had swelled to jam them shut. Such a forceful opening had been painful, far worse than ripping the plaster off a wound. In his own way he’d helped her heal.

 

But he walked out, closed to the door to her rented room and her heart. Those chambers remained silent and barricaded, unused rooms collecting dust and keeping her safe. 

 

Claire wasn’t the type to open up to strangers. She’d barely opened up to Frank ( _ That was part of the problem though, wasn’t it? You cold, frigid thing _ ). Nor was she the type to have a one night stand, and yet that night she’d been so drawn to him. 

 

As the video wrapped up, Claire closed the website and stepped forward out of the shadow. “So I’ll keep today’s class short and sweet, and see you all on Wednesday. Read the case before we meet, and have a good day.” She smiled, turning to erase her name from the board. It wasn’t a move to appear too busy to talk to her students, one in particular at least, or at least she hoped not an obvious one. 

 

Dusting off her hands and disconnecting her laptop, Claire seriously watched the room empty out. Of course he lingered too, taking far too long to gather up his simple notebook and ballpoint pen. Stacking her things, she watched his Blundstone clad feet step closer to the small podium, and then the slight tap of his left foot, off beat. No rhythm too it, it almost distracted her from hearing his words. 

 

“This is about the last place I expected to see ye’..” His voice was too low to be overheard, a murmur thick with memory. 

 

Claire didn’t want to remember. 

 

She looked up, meeting his eyes finally. Christ, he was tall. Had she really forgotten that. “I could say the same…” Claire smiled without wishing to, that blush still creeping over her fair skin. “I recall you not being terribly fond of London.” It was almost too much to hold his gaze then. Claire stepped back just slightly, enough to run into the podium and jostle the papers she’d stacked upon it. A ream of syllabi fell with an echoing thump, and of course James Fraser had to stoop to get it, just as she did. It brought them face to face, his hand brushing hers. 

 

“I…” she pulled back before he could speak, folding a bit awkwardly onto her heels, trying to make space between herself and her student. That’s what he was now, after all, her student. 

 

He stacked the papers, pressed them back into her hands as if he couldn’t sense her discomfort. She waited a moment too long after he rose to stand again. 

 

“I got accepted here, figured it was better for my plans now, ye ken? I only did one more year after…” he sighed, pushing his hand through his hair. “After. Wasn’t for me, anymore. So I’m studying law and counter terrorism.” 

 

She nodded, the papers clutched to her chest like a soft of shield. “I see. Well… that would suit you, I think.” As if she knew him at all. 

 

But she did, didn’t she? They hadn’t shared their full names but their full lives that night, and he had been as vulnerable as she. Jamie had unlocked her heart and Claire had thought she managed to take off the armor he always seemed to wear, even now. He confided in her. And yet here they were, where the proximity felt both thrilling and threatening. A part of her wanted it, craved that feeling of being chased by him, the power that radiated off him. The potential that if that door were closed, he might offer her the touches the heat in his eyes promised. To press her up against the podium, claim her mouth as he had then…

 

_ Get a grip, Beauchamp! _

 

“James I need to go. There’s another class here shortly…” and she couldn’t be caught flushed, standing too close to her far too attractive student. Claire grabbed for the rest of her things, tossing her coat over her arm before she picked up the pile. “It’s good to see you—“

 

He was watching her, and it brought her to a halt. The way he looked at her felt liquid, too hot in her veins. “It is. I hope you’re doing well,  _ Sorcha.  _ I’ll see you Wednesday.” He nodded his head, leaving the room and taking what was left of the oxygen with him. Starved, the flame of need in Claire’s belly died down. She struggled to get her breathing and her blush under control, just in time for the next professor to come through the open door. 

 

Shocking measured steps carried her out of the maze-like building, her heartbeat outpacing her feet. When Claire made it outside, she leant against the damp stone and gulped in the cool air.  _ James Fraser.  _ His name felt heavy on her tongue, and in her heart, although not entirely unpleasant. And that was just the problem. Despite everything, seeing him again was pleasant. It left her wanting, confused, and reeling. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you all want to know what happened in Cyprus but I can't give it all away ;)

After her escape to the eastern Mediterranean, Claire had been lucky enough to find not only a flat in London, but a roommate who soon became one of her closest—and only—friends. Geillis Duncan was everything Claire was not, at least when it came to her personal life. The door to her room seemed constantly revolving and Claire couldn’t fault the scot for it. She only questioned how a physician had so much time to find all those gorgeous men. 

 

Geillis tried to share the wealth, so to speak, to get Claire to take her up on her offers to head to this pub, that opening, or this party. Normally she refused. But seeing James Fraser again warranted more than a mere bottle of Rioja on her couch. 

 

And that was how she found herself slightly tipsy and tugging on a dress she hadn’t worn in ages. It’s fitted frame clung to her chest in a way she normally avoided (aided by one of Geillis’ push up bras), and grabbed hold of her hips, nipped in as it was at the waist. Claire had always loved the dress. It made her feel like a vintage star, gossamer bell sleeves and dramatic cleavage, despite the more modest hemline. She slipped on her heels and looked up when Geillis wolf whistled. 

 

“And here I thought I’d have to help ye, but my my. Ye clean up well, Beauchamp. Pity ye’ve a closet full of jumpers.”

 

Claire rolled her eyes and attempted to ruffle her curls into a slightly less bent shape. She really should have taken her bun out ages ago. “Oh sod off, my jumpers are flattering. I’m teaching now, I can’t get away with… this. I’m surprised you can at the clinic!” 

 

In truth, she knew it was out of character for her to get so dressed up. The few times in the last months she had been out with her roommate, she’d worn jeans and a fitted jumper, or perhaps a blouse and jacket. Never a dress. And certainly no heels. Seeing  _ him  _ today had reminded her what it felt like to be wanted like that. She tried not to think about that time often, but when lost in those deep blue eyes she couldn’t help it. She’d been almost squirming, torn between desire and discomfort, in her bloody classroom. 

 

With a huff, Claire looked back at Geillis. “I just… I wanted to get out. Maybe finally partake in the fun. It’s been—“

 

“Aye, far too long! But ye don’t need to excuse yerself. I just wish ye’d tell me what happened today. Usually, I’m the one asking ye to come out.” 

 

The memory of ruffled red curls caressing tanned shoulders flashed before her eyes, and Claire failed to shake the ghost from her mind. “I um…” she could feel the flush on her cheeks, creeping down her neck and dangerously low along her bodice. “I just need a night out. You know?”

 

Geillis hummed, seeming to give in. Although her gaze gave away her suspicions. “Well then. We’ve a new place to try. Somewhere hopefully we willna find any of yer students!” Laughing, she spun out of the room and grabbed her coat, impatiently urging her roommate along. 

 

With a last gulp of her wine and a final tussle of her hair, Claire followed her out of the flat in a cloud of perfume and the clicking of towering heels. 

 

—-

 

_ “Ye seem a bit lost there…” Jamie called out, leaning against the slightly crumbling wall of one of Nicosia’s many ancient buildings. In the late afternoon sun, the city wasn’t exactly bustling with life, but the old town still boasted shops and stalls, among which he’d found this gorgeously out of place creature. She turned and for a moment he was entirely lost in the startling hue of her eyes. Not brown, just shy of gold. Fine whiskey through a crystal cut glass, sparkling back at him.  _

 

_ She looked surprised, those eyes wide in her slightly flushed face. “I’m sorry? I’m not lost, just wandering around… playing tourist. Aren’t you?” The crisp vowels of her posh accent were in such contrast to her own, and he wondered if she was as confused as he.  _

 

_ “A Sassenach? And ye ended up touring the city alone?” His tone softened, even as he stood up off the wall and stepped a bit closer to her. Jamie was no monk, but he’d never understood the need some in his company felt to relentlessly chase after girls, to take them home every time they had leave. Perhaps he would have had he ever seen  _ her.  _ “Dinna take that the wrong way, aye? I’m wandering alone myself. Just nae a tourist.” _

 

_ She nodded, held her ground, and for that Jamie felt all the more entranced. “You’re hardly from here. I’ve lived in Edinburgh, I recognize a Scot.” She smirked a little, those eyes dancing at him, challenging him. “And I know  _ Sassenach  _ is not a nice name.” _

 

_ “I meant ye nae offence,” he laughed, shaking his head softly. A few sun-bleached curls fell over his brow. They hadn’t been this long since before he enlisted. But in recovery here among the medical corps and troops on loan to the UN Peacekeepers, no one cared if Colonel Fraser’s hair grew out.  _

 

_ “Just… Well ye confused me there, an English lass here. And ye did seem lost. This street goes nowhere, just takes ye to a plaza with no exits and a very cranky old woman.” He winked, or he tried to. _

 

_ It made her laugh and shake her head, the blush on her cheeks growing. “I wanted to see the city, although the beaches are lovely….” she looked up at him and he saw her debate with herself, and give in. “My uncle is an archaeologist, so I grew up quite familiar with ruins. I couldn’t pass up a day trip here. Now, what is a Scot doing in Nicosia?” _

 

_ Filled with curiosity akin to wonder, Jamie’s smile grew. “Ye’ll have to tell me more about that…” he pushed his hand through his hair, watched her eyes flick to the flex of his bicep. “I’m on leave from the military. There’s a couple of bases here, and it’s a better vacation than a Scottish spring.”  _

 

_ They talked and walked (out of the dead-end little land and along wider streets, up narrow allies and to the parapets of the ancient walls), and he relished every word that fell from her lips. At sundown he convinced her, rather easily, to join him at a small restaurant. He tried to show off, ordering in Turkish, only for the woman to roll her eyes at him and make sure Claire got what she wanted too, her English accented but clear.  _

 

_ Jamie learned so much about this strange woman, and also so little. She spoke of her travels and her uncles and of the myriad of places she’d lived. Of her hobby in botany and alternative medicine that was rapidly becoming a career. But never truly of herself. His curiosity lingered.  _

 

_ Claire touched him first, taking his hand as they sipped their wine, letting her foot tap his under the table.  _

 

_ It was all too easy to fall. To forget.  _

 

_ He kissed her outside the bistro, and along the walls. She kissed him against the Famagusta Gate, pressed her petite frame to his, molded herself against him. In those moments, they both were lost.  _

 

_ “Come back with me,” Claire murmured it, looking up at him almost upside-down, her back to his front and his arms guarding her against the soft breeze. “I have to get a ride back Kayalar... “ she looked up at him, turning out of his embrace. There in the shadow of  _ _ Girne Kapısı, Jamie imprinted the image of her in his mind forever.  _

 

_ “Aye, I’ll come,” his smile was flirtatious, his hands wrapping her hips and drawing her back against him. “How could I say no to ye?”  _

 

—-

 

Jamie glanced around the packed bar with a small sigh. Every inch of the place was crammed with uni students, eager to celebrate the start of the year, the return to their mates, and their newfound freedoms. John was among them, dancing between two girls with abandon. The lad could move, Jamie had to admit that. His slightly outrageous dancing and warm smile had drawn girls and blokes all night. It had been fun until those girls started circling him as well. 

 

“Are you starting this year as well?” Perky brunette number three, a friend of blond number two, smiled up at him. He had to credit them for being bold and confident. No use in squashing that, so he finished his beer and nodded. 

 

“Aye. In law.” he looked a bit bored, glanced back at John, and then down at the girl. “Sorry, what did ye say you were studying?” 

 

She pursed her lips. Good, better she thinks him an arse than doubt herself. “Nursing. I think. My sister does it and she likes it well enough.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. Christ, even the batting of her lashes.

 

_ He needed to get out of here. _

 

Holding up his pint so she could see its sorry state, Jamie nodded to the bar. “Excuse me…” 

 

There was no refuge there, crammed against the counter and fighting for the attention of the older man behind the counter. A bloke slammed into his shoulder, sputtering an apology and nearly spilling his drink. “Careful aye?” Jamie sighed, helping the lad right himself. He felt so bloody old standing there, slightly too sober and having none of the chaos around him. 

 

As he closed out he finally got John to look at him. “I’m heading out!” hopefully his motioning to the door was enough to make it clear, but he was sure he wouldn’t be missed. 

 

Outside he could at least get his bearings, shake the ringing of the base from his ears and take a proper breath. The night was still early and so he walked, taking in the area around Kings. In truth, he’d never explored London. He’d never explored much in any place, except for one glorious day in the Eastern Mediterranean. He couldn’t think of that, of her, now. 

 

With a sigh, he turned up a street and spotted a calmer, near empty bar sporting the sort of plush leather couch his flat sorely lacked. Perfect. Whiskey on the mind, the former soldier wandered in and up to the bar. For a moment he simply waited, staring at the polished copper bar top, and a pair of delicate, feminine hands resting on it. “Whiskey neat,” he murmured, “Glen Moray, if ye’ve it.” He assumed they did, given the bottles covered the wall behind the man. 

 

Settled in his waiting, Jamie almost missed the soft gasp of the woman to his left. “Sorry, did I bump ye--” he stopped, lost for the second time that day to the melt of her whiskey eyes. “Claire?”

 

Without thinking he reached out to grab her upper arm. It was meant to be reassuring but he watched her almost flinch away. 

 

“Jamie,” she smiled, something brittle and fractured. “Why aren’t you out with... “

 

“All the other children celebrating the start of the term?” He arched a brow and laughed softly. “I’m nae a kid, Claire. Hardly younger than ye, ye ken.”

 

“I know. I know that…” she bit her lip, and all Jamie could think was of how terribly he wanted to replace her teeth with his own. 

 

The bar was nearly empty, only the soft clink of glasses and the quiet murmur of a few patrons surrounded them, muffled by the rich hardwood and supple fabrics of the furnishings. It was intimate, posh. An absolute contrast to the airy furnishings of the room they’d shared that night in Cyprus. 

 

As the silence stretched on, Claire found her words. “I never expected to see you again. You said you were going back to war,” her eyes refused to settle on his, dancing about the room. “You said a lot of things, actually. Nothing that promised you’d ever be in London.” The opposite, in fact. 

 

Jamie waited, registering the pain in her voice and the guilt that flared up, not unlike the old wounds he’d sustained in the war. “Aye, I did. I was a coward then, I’ll admit that. But seeing ye again…” He smiled, stepped closer to her, almost taking the last of her space. The polished metal bevel of the bar prevented her from backing away. “Seeing ye again is more than I allowed myself to dream of,  _ Sassenach.”  _

 

Her heart leaping into her throat, Claire finally met his eyes. “You  _ left.”  _

 

“I had to. I couldn’t be in that room with ye and face the future I’d signed up to, having met ye… Knowing that I could have so much more than a life at war. Christ Claire, ye ken how I felt about ye!” 

 

The bartender glanced between them as he set Jamie’s whiskey down, arching a brow. The aggravated whispering had evidently caught his attention. “Everythin’ alright over here? Do you need another martini, miss?” 

 

She shook her head, breaking her gaze with Jamie and abandoning the words resting on her tongue. “No. Thank you, really. Excuse me,” flustered, she pushed past him and Jamie let her go. Against his better judgment, he let her go again. He watched unmoving as she all but speed-walked to the other side of the bar and a pretty redhead in a booth. When they got up to leave he sighed and sipped his whiskey, finally settling at the bar. 

 

—-

 

‘We need to go,” Claire’s heart was still pounding in her chest as she fought to process Jamie’s words. That night she had been the one to open her heart, to let him see all the shadows in herself along with the light. She’d trusted him, foolishly, and he’d never shown that for him it might have been too much. Not until the next evening. For him to admit to feeling… well, she assumed he felt the same as she did.

 

And it was terrifying. 

 

“What?” Geillis frowned, glancing at her empty glass. “Ye went to get more drinks and now we’ve got to go? What happened, Claire?” 

 

“I’ll explain but can we just go, please? I’ll explain at home.” 

 

“Ye better. Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

 

She pursed her lips as she shrugged on her coat. “Perhaps I have. It feels like it.” 

 

Although Claire was normally grateful for the proximity of their flat to everything, including Geillis’ preferred cocktail lounge, but at the moment she wished for more time. Processing that night, and Jamie’s declaration would take longer than the three blocks offered. Lost in her thought, she almost missed their door entirely. 

 

“Claire,” she felt Geillis’ hand on her arm, guiding her into the door. “Alright, spill. I willna be sitting here for these dramatics. There canna be two drama queens in this house, love.”

 

G always was dramatic, as fiery as her red hair, while Claire was the voice of reason. Despite their close friendship over the last two years, she rarely confided in Geillis about her past. Over the years she’d admitted the whole debacle with Frank, why she ran from Boston. But she’d kept mum about Jamie.  _ And why? Why was he, for all the brevity of their time together, so much more significant?  _ Perhaps because that day was the first time Claire had ever felt truly  _ seen  _ for herself, and that night the only time she’d ever felt so thoroughly worshipped. Or worshipped at all. 

 

“I ran into someone at the bar. A student of mine,” she watched Geillis grin and shook her head. “G, focus. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but it’s more than that.” Claire slipped off her heels as she sat on the couch, drawing her knees to her chest. 

 

“I met him before, when I spent time with my uncles after leaving Frank. I’d taken a week for myself while they were on a dig, took a trip over to the Turkish side of Cyprus.” She sighed, almost wistfully. “It’s such a beautiful island. It was supposed to be a trip for myself, alone, to heal from what happened with Frank--”

 

“But ye met a man,” Geillis nodded, coming back into the living room with two drams of whiskey.

 

Accepting the liquor gratefully, she nodded. “I did. Jamie. He was a soldier on medical leave, for a month or so there… He never truly said what had happened to him, only that he was in Afghanistan. But the scars… God, G, his back had to have been completely torn apart. They were still healing when we met.” 

 

She closed her eyes, recalling the feeling of his back under her hands, the strong muscle marred by deep gauges, some still red and angry even in the half-light of the moon. “He never told me much about himself at all, actually. I suppose I didn’t realize that until it was over. But I told him everything, G, things I’ve never told anyone. And he didn’t just listen. He made me feel… loved.” she blushed, shaking her head. 

 

“I’m a fucking idiot, aren’t I? I fell in love with a man I knew for one day,” she scoffed, tipping the rest of the whiskey down her throat in one gulp. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I thought he felt the same! I can’t explain it, but it seemed like… there was something there.” 

 

Claire seemed to deflate then, resting her cheek on her knees as her eyes closed. “I’d never felt shame like that. Not for having a one night stand, but for giving so much of myself-- of my trust-- to someone who could just walk out of my life.”

 


End file.
